


Three Months Away

by lesyeuxverts



Category: All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Separations - however necessary - are hard on both Diana and Matthew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Months Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Musyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/gifts).



> Dear Musyc, I very much hope that you enjoy this and have a happy Yuletide! <3
> 
> The canon explanation for why Matthew's blood rage is incurable is ... less than comprehensible, as far as I'm concerned. I didn't want to delve too deeply into science geekery here, but suggested several ways that a cure might be affected, most within (ish) range of current biological knowledge (though not necessarily tested in humans - or vampires!) yet. But, I hope that in giving Matthew a cure, I've been able to give you a glimpse of Diana and Matthew's relationship that you will enjoy. <3

Diana's father lingered in the doorframe. "There's a New England poet you should revisit." He disappeared.

Diana fought the urge to curse – she should've been used to her father appearing and disappearing - but it was still hard to see him go. 

It was harder when he came with unsolicited, enigmatic advice – and left, leaving the Bishop house smelling like cinnamon, like secrets. 

Nearly Christmas, though not even a time-walker could make the holiday come fast enough for the twins. Out of habit, Diana looked for them, though Sarah had taken them shopping. 

The house sang with untold years of silence. 

*****

Diana excused herself when the conversation turned technical. New advances in genome editing held no appeal compared to the alchemical illustrations waiting in her study.

Matthew, Marcus, Gallowglass, and Jack were all armed with the facts and several bottles of burgundy. They talked late into the night. 

Epigenetic modifications, histone deacetylase inhibitors, zinc fingers, crispr-cas, cell culture – the words washed over and through her, followed her into her sleep. She curled around the words pressed into her skin, and stretched out into the empty half of the bed. 

She felt the warmth and weight of Matthew, even without him there.

*****

The waiting was the worst. The Bishop house no longer rang with forgotten music or gave helpful hints – it, like Diana, was waiting. She thought she had learned to wait well, the last time that Matthew had left.

She wore patterns in the floorboards with her pacing, fidgeted with her weaver's cords – yearned to tie a knot, any knot, bring him back to her.

 _A good chance of reversing the condition_ , was all Matthew had said, and Diana clung to his words, his promise, his kiss. She touched her fingers to her lips, touched the skin that he had touched. 

*****

 _New England poets_ , Diana's father had said. She made her search for his meaning into a way to pass the time, to fill the empty lonely hours when the twins were asleep and alchemical manuscripts lost their attractions – when she ached, remembering the touch of Matthew's hands and lips, tracing the manuscript subsumed into her skin. 

He had kissed each word and cherished it, cherished her.

She read Longfellow, Dickinson, Frost. She reread Elizabeth Bishop, remembered schooldays spent studying her cousin famous in the mortal world. 

She read _A Miracle for Breakfast_ , and spent the night waiting for her miracle.

*****

Diana sat with Sarah, sorted herbs, dried and stored them. The whisper of magic was at her fingertips and in her skin. 

The poetry that she read at nights rested in her, a quiet comfortable coil in the back of her mind. Verse and stanza, rhyme and word – her father had wanted to give her a message, had given her this. 

Matthew's absence resonated – the house felt it, the children asked for him – but Diana was sure that he was coming home. He had _promised_.

Alchemical wedding, elemental power, magic in her bones and writ on her skin, Diana _believed_.

*****

 _It might be dangerous,_ Matthew had said. They were curled together on a blanket, looking up at the stars and tracing ancient patterns, stately dances. 

Diana's heartbeat thrummed when Matthew touched her, a happy flutter. "I trust you," she had said. 

Experimental therapies set aside, non-coding DNA and epigenetic effects – it was all just words, abstruse and sometimes useless. 

She said as much to Matthew. He knew what he was doing. 

Whispers of starlight and lovers' promises, hope and healing. It began to rain, and they snatched up the blanket, dashed indoors, kissed until they were dry. _I trust you._

*****  
Diana found it at last – the poem her father had wanted her to know. The house spit it out of the fireplace one cold night, ejected the book through a cascade of soot and sparks. 

The proper page was bookmarked. Diana's father had circled the title, marked it with his characteristic scrawl. 

_Home after three months away._

Diana began to count the days, to mark each one on an internal calendar. Like tree rings, growing the knowledge of drought and plenty, her bones would mark this season. 

She would wait. Matthew would be back – he would be healed, hers again.

*****

It was easier to wait, knowing. Her skin still sang with the memory of Matthew's touch, her body still ached for him. The twins still asked after him – they were too young to understand.

Diana kept Sarah company, kept herself busy. She made notes on manuscripts and drafted an outline for a book. 

Having faith did not erase the memory of the tense look on Gallowglass's face, the arguments and counter-arguments. _Experimental therapies are not meant to be tested like this. Could be dangerous. Could be everything._

Each breakfast was a miracle, another day gone, another day closer to Matthew. 

*****

Poetry was curse and consolation both. Elizabeth Bishop had lost. Poets mourned in lyric verse – Diana read them when she could not sleep.

Sometimes she dreamed that the poetry would take life and embed itself in her skin, taking its place in her palimpsest. Lovers' words, lovers' quarrels, lovers lost and returned and regained. The weaver's knot binds them all.

Deep in the dark hours of the night, she ached for Matthew and somehow still knew that he was safe, that he was healing. Lovers lost and homeless – lovers come home, to heart and hearth, all of parting's sorrow forgot.

*****

The smell of her favourite tea woke Diana, and then she registered – the familiar smell of Matthew, wine-dark and soothing, the rumble of his voice, the pace of his footsteps. 

The final separation, overcome – the problem that had plagued him for years, gone. Diana knew without asking, without Matthew needing to say a word. The knowledge resonated through the house, through her bones. She felt it through the pores of her skin, resting in the curve of her spine. 

He was hers again. _Home after three months away._

No longer sleepy, Diana opened her eyes and welcomed her husband home.


End file.
